


Marks of the Soul

by TheRogueLibrarian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Bad Dursleys, Bullying, Caramel, Coping Mechanisms, M/M, No Underage Sex, Soul Mate Marks, Stealing, probable Dumbledore bashing, secret identity?, soul mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2019-06-18 00:36:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15473616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRogueLibrarian/pseuds/TheRogueLibrarian
Summary: Harry Potter, a boy trapped in an unloving house, having given up on his parents love, wishes with all his heart to be united with his guaranteed love: Tom Marvolo





	1. Chapter 1

 

_Tom Mar_

 

Harry had traced the black ink a thousand times.

 

There were only so many things to do when you were trapped, alone, stuffed under the stairs like unwanted cleaning supplies. Everyone always knew that the only cleaning supplies that were actually wanted were slotted under the bathroom sink or in one of the kitchen cupboards. Never under the stairs, the only thing he took from there was the vacuum cleaner, everything else was left untouched and unwanted.

 

What Harry would give to be treated like Jif.

 

_Tom Mar_

 

Tom. Harry had always liked the name. Sometimes he said it over and over to himself, filling the vacancies of sound in his dusty cupboard. “Tom”, it sounded like plum, or pom, or song, or long, or come. It was dainty and lovely and made his heart sing.

 

Tom. Thomas. Tommy. Tom-cat. Tom.

 

What would they say to each other, he wondered. What would they do? Would Tom sweep him into his arms and kiss him like those icky romance shoes on the TV? Would he coo and call to Harry, run soft fingers down his face, look deep into his eyes and say he had been waiting so long?

 

Tom Mar. Harry Mar.

 

Harry thought he'd like the last name Mar much better than Potter. No one seemed to like Potter. His uncle would always call out 'Potter, do the dishes' or 'Potter, get in your cupboard'. Maybe if he wasn't Potter he wouldn't have to do the dishes.

 

Maybe Tom would even steal him away and they would live together in the forest, eating sweets and petting each others hair all day. Harry never got sweets, and no one ever touched him, unless it was to smack him of cuff him around the head. Maybe Harry wouldn't have to be such a freak and live in a cupboard if Tom came and whisked him away.

 

When Harry had first heard about soul mates from his aunt he had felt like something had died a little inside of him. She had said that soul mates were people destined to love you forever, but because Harry was so unlovable his soul mate wouldn't even want him.

 

Harry had moped and wept, cried, he hadn't even been able to look at his chest where the words echoed over and over. He'd always felt that the words made him special, and Dudley's words had always been a thing of pride for the family. Harry had thought that maybe his might be something to be proud of too.

 

At school the teacher had told them all about soul mates. How in the first meeting the name would grow warm, how when they were in trouble you would hurt in your heart, how it was a destined match and nothing could come between it. Harry couldn't remember all she said, only the bits that interested him. A long time ago there used to be prejudices against same-sex soul mates and soul mates of different ages, but that time had passed, since it was now known that soul mates were a perfect match and would love you forever. It didn't matter who they were, they would.

 

After that Harry liked to believe that his aunt was lying. Hadn't his teacher said that soulmates would love you no matter what? It was law. Basically. And Harry knew that you weren't able to break the law without a belting.

 

Harry knew only five laws, but they were unmistakably correct. He was a freak, that was a given. He was meant to do his fair share of the cleaning, which was almost all of it. He wasn't allowed to get better grades than Dudley, which was quite a difficult thing to do with Dudley's intelligence. He wasn't to speak or think about the 'm' word, probably best not speak much in general. And he wasn't allowed to talk about what went on inside the Dursley residence.

 

Harry was pretty certain that these laws were of the utmost importance. Mainly since whenever he broke them, even by accident, the consequences were not pretty in the slightest.

 

_Tom Mar_

 

He was turning seven that day, and he couldn't help but wonder if Tom had more than 'Mar' to his name. It was possible, but Harry had gotten used to writing Harry Mar in his handwriting class in preparation for the name change, it might be strange to have an extra letter to write. He had heard some of the giggly girls in his class whispering about changing their names for their soul mates, so Harry thought he'd probably do the same.

 

Someone like Tom Mar wouldn't want a freaky last name like Potter.

 

His chest heated up and Harry ran a hand across the swirly writing.

 

_Tom Marv_

 

Marv. Hmm...

 

Harry giggled, swav, swerve, path, mart, mar.

 

“Tom Marv” He mouthed to himself.

 

Hopefully his soul mate would think of him too and like his name.

 

...Maybe just Harry, since Potter was clearly a bad omen.

 

…

 

Harry scratched his chest absently, lowering his eyes to the ground and waiting until 'submissive Harry time' was over. After various training exercises, that mostly involved Harry grasping at straws in how to behave appropriately and being hit a lot, Harry had squeezed himself into a shape shifter, changing his personality per circumstance.

 

Right now he was at home, standing outside his cupboard in the classic soldier pose, except with his head turned down to the ground and feet angled in a bracing position. At home he was a servant, and he worked to sleep under the stairs (dust as his payment). Harry basically embraced his role as house whipping boy, just letting the time fly over him in a numb sort of haze.

 

_Tom Marvolo_

 

It was a fancy name, and sometimes Harry liked to daydream that he was Cinderella and his Tom was the prince. He'd stopped dreaming that his parents would come and save him long ago, now he only dreamt of his soul mate.

 

But, even now that hope was draining away.

 

“-And what do you do? Huh, Potter?-”

 

Oh how Harry despised his last name. Potter was an insult, a curse on his family's lips, a reminder of his drunken - _how dare they leave me by dying_ \- parents. Even his first name too sometimes brought an ill taste to his mouth, but without 'Harry' he wouldn't have any anchor of who he was, so he allowed it. Better 'Harry' than nothing.

 

“-You come back here, and think that you can get away with slacking. Do you think I'm blind, boy?-”

 

'Boy' wasn't much better either, and was tied in last place with 'Potter'.

 

...Sometimes Harry wished he was a girl just so he wouldn't have to be spat 'boy' all the time. It sounded like toy, ploy, and even cry if he twisted it enough. It was not a happy word, and he barely refrained from flinching. _Keep it together, Harry, keep it together_.

 

Harry didn't think his uncle was blind, but he certainly thought he had enough dumbness to fulfil the whole adage of 'blind, deaf and dumb' without the other two ailments.

 

“-Do you think I didn't see you watching the TV while you vacuumed? That TV is for Dudley and Dudley only, not ungrateful little freaks like you. Ten lashes for your cheek, boy, ten lashes for stealing from Dudley, and ten lashes for wasting my time.”

 

Harry simply kept his head bowed and channelled all his anger away. He didn't know where all his anger went, other than that it built up until he popped and ended up doing something harmful, whether to himself or others wasn't decided until the day it exploded. It was no use growing angry, it only got him more strokes with the belt and more chores. It was better to just let things pass, easiest, safest. What would his pride get him?

 

Nothing, that's what, nothing.

 

No matter how many times he told himself it didn't stop his teeth from clenching. Harry closed his eyes briefly, trying to still his breathing, and tuned back in to his uncle's rant.

 

He knew this wasn't about Harry's 'crimes', this was about how his uncle's work wasn't doing well and how he wanted to blame Harry.

 

“How many is that all together, boy?”

 

30.

 

“40, don't you think?”

 

Harry said nothing, not even willing to point out that his uncle had just added ten extra lashes. He knew how this went. His uncle wanted him to point it out, and then he would say 'arguing with me? Huh? Another twenty for talking back.' And then Harry would be left with sixty whacks of the belt, with the buckle end, and new scars to add to his collection.

 

No, he would simply let it be at 40, and he would not buy into it.

 

“As I thought, 40.”

 

Harry waited, wondering when he would be asked to turn to the wall.

 

There was a beat of silence, with his uncle's smugness permeating the air (oh he's such a big man, beating his ten year old nephew), and Harry's nerves starting to kick in.

 

_Don't shake. Don't start shaking. Don't give him the satisfaction._

 

Harry's body betrayed him (again, he thought with anger), and his hands started to quiver like the frightened heart of a mouse. He winced involuntarily, screaming internally at himself for showing fear, even if he had a blank mask on. His uncle caught the movement with his black beady eyes, like a mole rat Harry's mind sneered, and smiled a once-terrifying smile (Harry was too old to be scared by it now), as if he had won some sort of prize by making Harry's body react to fear.

 

Harry was vividly reminded of a villain from a book he had stolen from the library the other day, large, tall, ugly and fat, with eyes dark and shallow, and a face shaped like a walrus' behind. At first he had started to steal books because Dudley had blamed him for many library-related wrong doings, and Harry had been banned meaning the only way to acquire literature was to steal. But then it had escalated, and he had continued his life of theft because he wanted something of his own, something to belong to himself that wasn't a cupboard and tatty second hand clothes. If he couldn't say what he wanted or do what he wanted, then he would certainly steal the books he wanted to read. They couldn't stop him reading, they wouldn't, he wouldn't let them.

 

As his uncle's grin became manic, and he started to flick open his belt, Harry thought in a detached sort of way that it was strange how every villain he'd ever read about had been ugly or fat. It was one of the reasons he counted himself lucky for not getting enough to eat (oh, boy, what positives it does entail), he didn't want to be fat or evil. Harry could never want that.

 

...even if he stole sometimes.

 

It was justified, he reminded himself.

 

“You think you can wear that face with me?-”

 

 _Yeah_. Harry can definitely change his _face_.

 

“-I saw your hand twitch, I know you're itching to laugh. Well, I won't have it boy. Twenty more lashes for that.”

 

60.

 

Harry was left with 60 anyway.

 

Damn his traitorous body!

 

…

 

That night, as he tended to his wounds in the only way he knew how, by ignoring them and pretending that dirt wasn't going to kill him eventually, he traced his soul mark. His nightly tradition.

 

_Tom Marvolo_

 

It was such a beautiful and exotic name. It just rolled off the tongue, like some foreign name which makes the girly girls bat their eye lashes and flip their hair to the side. He'd looked up the meaning in the books at school, and the teacher had sneered that apparently 'Marvolo' wasn't a real name, and that 'Tom' meant ' _the male of various animals, especially the domestic cat._ ' and was a slur for ' _a female prostitute_ '.

 

Harry didn't know what a prostitute was, but he sure as hell didn't like the tone of voice his teacher used to describe Harry's eternal love!

 

“Hello, I'm Marvolo, and I will love you for eternity.”

 

Harry mimicked in a deep voice, rubbing the name more fiercely than before. It hurt, of course it did, since it was bruised red (likely to be blue by the next day) from where his uncle had tossed him into the cupboard. But Harry didn't care, it was his soul mark. _His_. And he could do with it whatever he damn well pleased.

 

“Hi there, your eyes are so green I thought for a moment I might have wet myself. The name's Marvolo, Tom Marvolo, and I thought I'd just come over and say hi. Soul mates, you say? Well, I guess you'd best come live with me in my castle over the hill, its very big and I have a whole room just for you... its called my bed and I have nothing against hugging forever. Yeah, sure. Hugging is my favourite hobby. Hmm... Lets get married, shall we?”

 

Harry's eyes might have gone a bit glazed as he thought of his soul mate pulling him into his arms, smelling his hair, and nuzzling into his neck. Tom _would_ want to touch him. He _would_. Because he was Harry's soul mate, and... it didn't matter if Harry was a freak. He _would_.

 

Harry stroked the mark more gently this time, tracing the large loopy letters right under his nipple, and smiling softly to himself.

 

In his cupboard he could be himself, not the submissive slave he needed to be for his family, or the idiot he needed to be for school. Harry could be Harry, not hiding anything, and not caring if his back throbbed from the new slashes down his spine. He could read his stolen books, be the hero in the stories, and fantasise about his soul mate taking him away from his job as a servant and into a fast paced love affair.

 

Harry imagined their first meeting over and over, as he pulled his own arms around himself for comfort in the cold of the cupboard. He would normally use his blanket but it was infested with lice, since head lice had gone around school and apparently Dudley thought it would have been a funny joke to tip a box full of bed lice onto Harry's blanket. How he got them Harry can only guess. When his aunt found out she had burnt it and spat that he should have taken better care of his things.

 

Harry's eyes watered slightly under the strain of tears. No! No! He was not going to cry. Harry never cried. Never. And it didn't matter that the blanket had been from his mother, it didn't, because he was never going to see it again.

 

He warbled in a slightly shaky voice,

 

“Harry... Potter? Potter, you say. Well, everyone knows that 'Potter' is a terrible curse of a last name and the equivalent of 'freak'. How 'bout you change your name to Marvolo, a nice exotic French name, and we can go walk off into the sunset?”

 

Harry hugged himself tighter.

 

Soul mates were destined, he reminded himself. Tom _would_ come for him. He would. It was his destiny.

 

…

 

The swing creaked underneath him as he pushed himself forward and back by the very tips of his toes. Wind blew his hair about and Harry frowned to himself in annoyance. Something didn't feel right, there was something off about the park today which he just couldn't place. He involuntarily rubbed against his chest, over where his soul mark would be, and closed the book which had been resting in his lap.

 

 _Treasure Island_. He'd stolen it from the school library just that morning, and was about a quarter of the way through.

 

“Help! Help me!”

 

Harry froze, his muscles tensing and fists clenching in his lap. He should ignore it, it wasn't the first time he'd heard someone being beat up by Dudley's gang, or some other rough kids from his school. No one ever intervened, it was just how it was. And Harry was reminded vividly of the many times _he_ had been chased down in public places and people just looked away or sneered at him as he was attacked, _as if it was his fault_. But, that was just how it was, always.

 

His hands unclenched. _They_ didn't help _him_ so there was no reason to put _his_ life in jeopardy and help _them_.

 

“Please! Someone! Help me!”

 

Harry closed his eyes, looping his arms around the chains of the swing and breathing deeply. No good would come of him interfering. It was no good to go around saving people as if his life was meaningless, Harry may be a freak but Tom would eventually love him, he needed to be alive for that to happen.

 

 _What if this is Tom?_ A voice called in his head, and Harry scowled angrily as he stood. He was only doing this in case this is how he meets his soul mate, this has _nothing_ to do with his conscience.

 

A voice in the back of his mind said softly of how _right_ it would be to help someone, to save someone like no one saved him. Harry scrunched his nose up in annoyance. Stupid morals! They were going to get him killed eventually, but he couldn't help but think of how helpless he had been the first few times Piers held him down and the other boys took swings. This voice screaming for help sounded... young, too young, and Harry couldn't just stand by and let his fear control him.

 

Before he knew what he was doing Harry was racing over to the sound, wincing as he heard the slap of fists on skin. He knew it was somewhere in the park, since he had heard the screams quite loudly, so he raced over to the general direction they had come from.

 

“Pl-please stop!”

 

Ah, pleading with the captors, it just didn't seem to make much sense with a group as stupid as Dudley's gang, Harry thought to himself as he rounded past the see-saw and over near the shark and bee plastic spring riders. His rage spiked as he saw a young child simply swinging back and forth on the shark as she watched, nonplussed, as the group of boys beat the other into the ground. Damn, how little kids could think this was okay eluded him, even after years of contemplation.

 

Harry could only see flashes of brown hair and small gangly arms being held by Piers; he was the guy who generally held people's arms behind their backs as Dudley hit them. It was teamwork, and it had been going on ever since the boys became friends and realised they could bully people _together_. It seemed to Harry that people of similar interest truly did band together.

 

His muscles froze and he was stood stationary, watching in morbid fascination as Dudley's gang continued to hit the young child. Harry wasn't sure if it was fear or excitement which rang through him, and as he started to loosen his muscles to prepare himself to run forward he didn't care. He just needed to save the kid, just this once, and then he would go back to only caring about himself and Tom.

 

Harry liked to think that if he did this Tom would be proud of him, and would realise that there was more to Harry than the rumours.

 

He mentally scoffed, as if _Tom_ could ever believe _rumours_.

 

“Hey! Stop that!”

 

Harry called out, wincing internally in fright as the gang stopped and turned to him with incredulous faces. Harry felt phantom pains along his body as he was reminded of how only last week the group had chased him down into an alley off Birch Street, and left him with two black eyes and a bruised stomach.

 

How the teachers didn't question what went on in Harry's life sometimes astounded even himself, they simply brushed it off as if he were some sort of street fighter on weekends. One would assume that adults held the capacity for more common sense, yet that assumption would surprisingly bear no fruit in reality.

 

“Oh, look who it is... _Potter_. What? You want to get pummelled too?”

 

Dudley sneered, wiping his hands on his school shirt and straightening up. The group laughed as a whole, thinking the whole thing was _so_ hilarious. One of them even added,

 

“Yeah Potter, you get jealous of this freak's bruises that you wanted more?”

 

They grinned, a few chuckling in the back, but Dudley did not look impressed. Harry could tell that his cousin was either going to do something really painful (for Harry) or really stupid (probably painful for Harry as well), in revenge against the perceived slight. He was the leader of the group, unofficially elected because he was the most cruel and fat and stubborn, and didn't appreciate some of his 'friends' stealing the 'joke' from him.

 

Dudley cracked his knuckles, showing the faint red burn from punching, and said cruelly,

 

“Yeah _freak_ , don't you get enough hits from dad at home? Or should I say its not enough?”

 

The group laughed again, but Harry saw Piers shift uncomfortably. Harry was reminded of the fact that his step-dad got taken away for domestic violence only a couple months ago, and Harry guessed that he wasn't exactly happy with the same sort of thing happening, even to 'Potter', having experienced it first hand.

 

Harry didn't reply, happy to let them taunt him, since it meant they were no longer beating up the small boy, and they hadn't started beating him up yet. It was good to keep them distracted.

 

Dudley threw in a few more cruel quips which made Harry's heart ache painfully in his chest, but Harry could tell that most of the boys had started to grow bored from just standing around and insulting him. They were boys of action, and would rather beat Harry up than listen to Dudley roast him.

 

One stepped forward, Mark Jenkins, who was a lean boy with sandy blonde hair and a nuclear family. His parents were both blonde, and the rumour around the town was that they were cousins, since they looked so similar. He was a vicious sort of boy, had fun throwing rocks at Harry ever since a young age, and wasn't commonly known as one who took the first step (or punch in this case). He was also the kid who had rivalled Dudley's joke earlier, and probably wanted to do something in a pseudo challenge for leadership.

 

As he moved forward, Harry could clearly see the small boy who had been let out of Piers' grip, lying on the ground and sobbing silently. Harry had to commend the boy for being so quiet, young children usually had a hard time dealing with pain, and Harry was glad he didn't have to do any more distractions to save the kid. Bruises and lacerations were forcefully scattered all across his face and down onto his torso, seen through his ripped shirt. His hair was not brown like Harry had first thought, but a raven colour, quite similar to Harry's own if only a bit lighter. His eyes were shut and his face was morphed into an expression of pain, his arms clutching himself fiercely with white knuckles. Harry didn't think he was any older than seven, and wondered what he could have done to spark the group's ire. Perhaps he was just unlucky and tripped in front of them, they didn't usually go after kids that young, usually preferring to just chase Harry since he never told anyone.

 

_Crack._

 

Harry hadn't been paying attention, and so didn't see the fist hitting his face until it was too late. He fell to the ground, face throbbing from the impact, and made a whiny wheezy sort of sound as the air was pushed out of his lungs from the shock. His back hit the tarmac first, making him wince from the feeling of his half-healed whip-marks scraping against it and adding fire to his wounds. He'd be lucky if they weren't bleeding by the time he got back home.

 

He'd be lucky if the rest of him wasn't bleeding too.

 

 _Why did I do this?_ He thought as Dudley stepped forward, grinning with all his teeth, as he descended upon him, straddling his legs for better grip. Harry closed his eyes, his eyebrows curling in fear of what was going to happen, and relaxed his muscles so he wouldn't get hurt as much.

 

He almost laughed as the first punch fell into his gut, thinking he had basically been trained for this kind of thing by his uncle.

 

 _That's the last time I read Treasure Island in the park_ , Harry swore to himself silently as the other's started to crowd around him, their presences exuding excitement (he couldn't understand how they still got excited from hurting him when they had done it so often before). Those books always make him act like a hero, and now he had to pay the price.

 

Heroes never win. Surely Tom would understand that when he catches Harry ignoring someone else's plight. Life was a war, and there was no place for helping the weak.

 

Harry already knew this, there was no reason to help.

…

 

Harry sat by the pond, clutching a pair of his aunt's scissors in his grip. He hoped she didn't find out that he had nicked them from her sewing kit that morning, but thought it wasn't likely that she'd notice them missing anyway. Aunt Petunia never truly did any of the sewing, instead spending her days lounging about the house watching TV or going out to her bingo club. She'd been in a book club a few years ago, but got kicked out because she sneered too much about the material, or as she explained “the girls were jealous of me”. Her answer for everything.

 

Harry did all of the sewing in the house, he had made the curtains (twice, since the first time his aunt had thought they were too 'expressive', which made no sense since the curtains were a beige colour like she asked for), had done numerous jobs with Aunt Petunia's dresses and Uncle Vernon's jeans. He shuddered slightly as he remembered the first few times he had sewn without first researching it, and would never again would be underestimate the importance of libraries; the punishments for his incompetence would not be forgotten any time soon.

 

That day, with the sun shining brightly on his sunburnt neck, Harry was attempting to cut his hair. The last time he had let it grow out his aunt had cut it awfully, leaving a large bald spot and huge curl covering Harry's hideous scar. But, that wasn't what Harry was afraid of. No, that night after she had done her heinous job, he had worried and turned over and over all night, barely sleeping at all. Harry, as young as he had been, had been worried about the school's reactions, since he had already been ostracised terribly at school and could only imagine what 'pranks' Dudley would come up with in retaliation to his hairstyle. Strangely the next morning when he had awoken, Harry's hair had returned to the cut of three months prior, short but well done. Aunt Petunia had shrieked and called him a 'devil's child', a 'demon from hell', and the classic and, frankly, overused 'freak'. When his uncle had returned home it had been fifty lashes for 'freakishness' (Harry still wasn't sure if that was really a word), ten lashes for making his aunt worry and ten lashes for wasting his uncle's time. A record breaking seventy lashes across his behind.

 

At the time Harry had only been seven, more naïve to the importance of certain things and sickeningly reliant on his family, the pain leaving him almost incapacitated and wholly in their hands. The punishment had left him unable to walk the following day 'moaning like his pot-headed parents at the smallest of things', and had required his aunt to replace his blood soaked sheets. After that Harry was careful to always cut his own hair. He could tell that his relatives were very suspicious every time he returned with an average cut at a reasonable length, but they said nothing, trying to bring his freakish displays out of their minds.

 

…

 

The water was cold but worth it as Harry scooped change from The Square Camberley Wishing Fountain. He was in Northern Surrey and the walk to the mall had taken almost two and a half hours, a difficult walk, especially as he was limping from the beating Dudley's gang had given him three days before, but it was worth it. It was a walk he did every weekend, each time waiting until the mall was at its peak business hours, to swoop in and collect pennies from the beautiful water sculptures and basin below. Pennies didn't seem like much, but occasionally a person would throw in a one or two pound coin, and that was where Harry really started raking in the cash.

 

He collected it all in his school backpack, one of Dudley's old ones from last year, with the skill of an experienced thief, slight of hand ingrained into his fingertips like a musician's callouses. Harry had only been caught twice, and had managed to run away both times. The trick was speed and timing.

 

The mall population moved in waves, the security moving over past the fountain every forty minutes, the amount of shoppers rising and falling until there was only one or two walking by, and the dark corner always empty, in which Harry could hide while he waited for the money to dry. Harry waited, pouncing like a panther when there was only one or two oblivious patrons walking past, and glomped large handfuls of pennies into his bag.

 

It had been very suspicious the first time he had bought something with fifty wet pennies, it didn't help that Harry had been buying food nearby the fountain either. But, the shopkeeper had simply muttered something about the homeless and let him go.

 

Harry stopped his stealing after almost an hour on the job and ten pounds in coin to spare. He sleuthed over to the other side of the mall, ignoring the looks he got for his wet hair (how it got wet others could only begin to imagine) and rag like clothes. Soon he came across his favourite shop: the fish and chips shop.

 

The food was warm, cheap, not very nutritional, and the workers rarely asked any questions about his dubious currency. Harry had been buying lunches on the weekends for years, ever since he realised that when his ribs stuck out that much it wasn't healthy and that the Dursleys certainly weren't going to start feeding him more. No, they were more likely to beat him for impertinence than stop neglecting him.

 

Long ago he had considered stealing from his aunt or uncle's wallet, perhaps cashing in with some Dudley's pocket money, but the consequence seemed to greatly outweigh the reward. It was much safer to steal from the wishing fountain, and visiting the mall every weekend managed to get Harry away from his prison.

 

Harry walked over, into the store, glad he had waited until he was dry, and stood behind the counter. He was short enough that his eyes only _just_ reached over the high waisted cashier's bench, and he had to knock his hand on the black marble to grab the worker's attention. A red haired lady, with curls cut just above her ears in a bob, and far too much make up (but, honestly, Harry didn't have much of a right to judge someone's appearance) peered over to look at him. She didn't look very impressed at all, not that Harry cut an impressive figure with his dirty clothes and wet backpack, and had a slight sneer titling her lips as if she had eaten a bad egg.

 

She was new, and this might become difficult.

 

Harry coughed, making her straighten her back and idly tap her fingers. He ordered,

 

“One large fish and chips, with an orange Fanta, please.”

 

Harry's mouth watered traitorously as he smelt the enticing aromas of fried food, and as his mind conjured images of highly lusted after fizzy drink and protein to warm his belly, he swallowed lustily.

 

She blinked, and said with cruel lips and dubious eyes,

 

“Are you sure you can afford that, sir?”

 

Harry's eyes narrowed in annoyance, who taught this girl how to serve? He was a servant as his main occupation, not a cashier lady, but even he knew not to take that tone with someone. It was just begging for a beating.

 

Instead of saying this out loud Harry simply smiled a simpering smile and plopped his dripping bag onto the counter.

 

“I think I can manage.”

 

He drawled with an insolence he only ever got to express when away from his smothering school and torturous family.

 

She huffed, as if she hadn't done anything wrong, and stepped back slightly from the dripping backpack, muttering under her breath about how she hated her job. Well, Harry thought, at least you get _paid_. Honestly, it was like she didn't understand that she was insulting all of those who worked much longer hours for much less, in unspeakable working conditions.

 

Harry stopped that train of thought when he realised he was considering his abusive home environment as his full time job. Even if it was correct, it wasn't necessarily a healthy way to think about it.

 

“That'll be six pounds fifty, five for the fish and chips, and a pound and a half for the Fanta.”

 

Harry blinked before he raised himself up on his tippy toes and started to count out his pennies one by one, eventually pushing a momentous stack to the jaw-dropped lady who had already prepared his lunch in the time it took to count out the money. He said in a nauseatingly polite tone, taking the food, and strapping on his backpack,

 

“Would you like for me to recount it?”

 

She shook her head, gaping at the hundreds of coins on her counter, sliding them across one by one and mumbling under her breath. Harry grinned like a shark as he left with the food, rolling the two pound coin in his hand, and chuckling under his breath.

 

Okay, he wasn't a criminal, but he did just make a lady count up 650 pennies for his lunch. It was a suitable revenge, Harry thought, as he found a place to sit in the plaza.

 

…

 

Harry was like a shadow in the house, a place that seemed dead, not homely, and only cruel prison walls for him to be trapped within. He moved silently past the other occupants, never asking a question, never speaking, his own footsteps muffled by the fear of being seen. He was like a chair, or a washing machine; he served a purpose, but he was replaceable and he was not human.

 

Harry watched with blank eyes as his uncle returned home, hanging his large jacket on the coat rack, and rubbing against the stubble of his chin in thought. He pressed himself against the wall, back flat and face tilted to the ground as his uncle passed him, taking no notice of the small slave employed at his home. Harry watched in silence as his aunt pulled herself away from the dinner _he_ had made, the dinner _he_ had slaved over, the dinner that had added a new burn to _his_ callouses, the dinner _she_ was heating up, the dinner _she_ pretended to have made, and accepted the loving kiss on her cheek.

 

Harry moved listlessly to the bathroom, wiping the sink, the dust that had barely gathered, and flushing the toilet that Dudley had left a mess inside, for him to clean. He moved, stomach still feeling full from his large lunch in the mall two days ago, and having had a stale piece of toast only that morning, back into the hallway with the gracefulness of a cat. Harry stood, outside his cupboard, wondering if tonight his uncle would make up some crimes for him to be punished for, wondering if work had been bad and Harry would pay the price for it. It felt so surreal, living in that house, playing the part he was trained to play, never even considering leaving.

 

Harry would be stuck there until he was old enough to be kicked onto the curb, until he was no longer of use for his family, and had to make his own life out of nothing. Harry would be trapped until Tom came and found him, and swept him away...

 

Or maybe until he came and saved Tom from whatever torture was stopping him from saving Harry.

 

His eyes lit up in understanding, a rare smile gracing his lip's like an angel's laugh. Maybe the reason that Tom had not saved him yet was because Tom needed saving too, and didn't have enough letters of Harry's name to know where to find his saviour. Harry had always thought that Tom would be an older man with a life already planned out, only waiting for his long lost love, his saviour, the one who could be strong and let Harry finally be weak. But, this was also his soul mate, and if need be Harry would gladly be the stronger of the two, continuing on with the inner strength he had been forced to carry his whole childhood.

 

Harry's birthday was two months away, and it was one month until the holidays. Eleven. He would wait until he was eleven, until the holidays, and at that point he would leave and try to find his soul mate. It was destiny that they should meet, so it shouldn't be that hard, right?

 

“Just you wait, my love.” Harry muttered to himself under his breath as the family sat down for dinner as he watched through the archway of the kitchen. “I will find you soon.”

 

If Tom didn't find him, then Harry would just have to find Tom. Or he would die trying.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stuff happens.
> 
> and i did put a warning for caramel for a reason xD

Harry gasped in pleasure, heat pouring through his veins, a godly feeling pooling in his stomach, and his tongue, it pulsed in pure holy agony. He closed his eyes, fire pushing in and out of his nose as he swallowed, goosebumps of delight jumping up on his skin, groaning wantonly at the taste.

 

 _Chocolate_.

 

God, he loved it, it was orgasmic and indescribable. Dark chocolate, bitter sweet, delectable, consuming, ravenous on his angelic tonsils. White chocolate, sweet, milky, tinged with coconut, pulling strangled moans from his throat. Milk chocolate, simple, sugary, melted goodness that pertained the after taste of rainbows and sunshine.

 

But, here Harry was, sitting on the swing, breaking off the final piece of the best chocolate of all...

 

 _Caramel swirl_.

 

It was magnificent, a glorious treacherous taste, and Harry despised it as much as he was devoted. Nothing was the same without caramel, his life was titled on its axis and not in a good way, he was off kilter and twisted. When the caramel taste melted off his tongue and he was left with the empty feeling, the addictive quality, the world with the sunshine gone and only that familiar bitter cold, it was not worth it. When the caramel disappeared Harry felt like he was missing something extremely important in his life, and swore that he would never let that empty feeling return, he would never let the caramel enter his mouth and tease him with an incomplete existence...

 

He had sworn...

 

And then, like magic, like a miracle from the heavens above, Harry had found two pounds, two little shiny magnificent golden coins almost begging him to take them, sitting innocently on the ground, gazing out at the world tauntingly, just outside the _supermarket_... where there were almost endless shelves of caramel chocolate. And today, god, today they were having a 'two for one' special on chocolate, and he could get _two caramel chocolate bars_. It was too much for him. It was as if the world _wanted_ him to buy Caramel Chocolate, and who was he to deny the world?

 

Now he sat, after having finished his first bar, stomach settled and an expression of utter and complete unadulterated bliss on his features, plopped on the grass like a peaceful little flower, even swaying slightly in the wind. Harry sighed, a dreadfully un-Harry-like beautific July smile on his face in this private moment, ready to admit that apart from Tom the most important thing in the world was caramel chocolate.

 

He mournfully threw the wrappers away, them licked clean and most definitely unsanitary; as they had been subjected to the contents of a ten year old's mouth – even Harry was wary over the parcels that had passed through his chapped lips. Harry bundled away from the bin, noting suspicious eyes on his form as they caught the decadent shine of caramel leaving his spindle fingers, and this foreign observer walked briskly – with high born superiority all too common in Surrey-dwellers – from the shops. Mrs Jenkins, an Albanian woman who was as pale as the moon and as sharp as Aunt Petunia's favourite butter knife, watched him go with a narrowed gaze, her lips twisted in uninhibited disapproval.

 

Harry held a sneer in, like a sneeze he always felt a little sickly when he held it in. _There's no law against using change you find_ he thought to himself as he proceeded past her, nodding cordially as he met her weird glowing Albanian eyes. He assumed she was simply bitter about her son's suspension after he was caught beating on a young second grader. Or perhaps it was the cardigan she wore buttoned all the way up to the top on a stinking hot day of July, she would surely boil alive.

 

It was early July, time having passed obscenely fast since his dive into plan Save Tom. School was almost out. It was that time of year when they didn't really learn anything, and instead just sat in class watching movies or having discussions on things. All the major testing was finished, and their teacher this year had been ahead of the curriculum. Harry _should_ have had more free time on his hands with no homework, but it was not the case. His Aunt and Uncle certainly kept him busy enough. Harry thought there was something deeply misguided with pointlessly cleaning something that was already sparkling. It just didn't hold up with logic. But his relatives had never been ones to abide by the laws of logic, so he supposed that gave them a pass.

 

Harry rewarded himself with a weary resigned sigh. He was impatient to be out of here, but also reluctant, in case Tom lived in Surrey. He didn't want to leave and lose his soulmate. But he didn't want to stay either. He scuffed his feet on the ground as he wandered into the park. He held a book under his hand, _Pride and Prejudice_ , as he strode with destination in mind. The story was slightly dry, and a bit too slow paced for him, diction that was almost illegible, along with a handful of pretentious words – and maybe they were only pretentious _because_ he couldn't understand them –, but Harry saw it as important to read a few romances here and there, in order to better prepare himself for his love-life with Tom.

 

He really wanted to be perfect for Tom, just in case his Aunt's warning all those years ago held even an iota of truth. It was one of Harry's greatest fears: that he would meet Tom and Tom would decide not to love him back, he would take one look at Harry with those gorgeous big-man-love-you-forever-please-live-in-my-castle eyes, sneer that it wasn't worth it, and walk away. Even thinking it now sent a shiver of unbridled horror down his spine. Harry shook his head, his raven mess cuffing him like the beastly creature it was, and settled on the nearest swing.

 

He titled back and forth as he took his slightly caramelised fingers and wedged the book open to his latest page. Tom would love him, he thought, if he was very smart and capable. And when they met and Tom swept Harry into his arms and murmured of how Harry was perfect, then all would be right in the world. Harry curled his arms around the swing, rocking back and forth, brushing hair from his eyes every now and again once it escaped from behind his ears.

 

He felt utterly calm here, alone, in the peace of the park. No one really went to this place this late in the evening. Harry was free to simply exist with himself, to read and to contemplate. He could star gaze later on, perhaps find a place to stash supplies for when he left. Harry had complete control of his actions, and it was an addictive feeling.

 

A rustle made him pause, and he let his finger fall onto the page so he could memorise the number. He traced it, _98_. Harry slid the book closed quietly, keeping his head tilted to the ground in the hopes that he may remain unseen. He felt his hand reaching for his soul mark under his jumper. His fingers grazed the surface and the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

 

One cannot die until they meet their soulmate, and so having a soulmate mark means he has a certain extent of assurance with his life. Babies born without soul-marks live uncertain lives, but Harry was not one of those babies.

 

_Be calm. Its probably nothing. Be calm._

 

“Hello there.”

 

A confident and intrusive voice fell over Harry like sticky summer sweat, and he looked up, sliding the book closer to his torso, as if to protect it. He didn't like this position on the swing any longer, as it would take considerable time to unlatch his fingers, put his book down, and stand, to be prepared to defend himself. Suddenly Harry was itching to get off.

 

“Whatcha doing out here, all on your lonesome?”

 

She asked, with a certain air of expectation – he really hated it when people just assumed he would follow along. Harry considered this new person in front of him, this lanky girl with dark hair and spicy eyes. Her face was like the moon, very round, lumpy, and with many pimples. She was curvy, and boisterous, and different. Harry disliked her on principle; the principle being he couldn't trust her, not anyone (except Tom). He switched his expression to a polite disinterest,

 

“This and that.”

 

She showed off a haughty look, her mouth twisted into something crossed between a frown and a pout. Then, she strode forward, and hugged him right around the waist. The air fell right out of him as her warm leeching arms strangled his most recent injuries, and pain sparked intense and heady. His body complained, and Harry sat, still, uncomfortable, his skin wishing to slide right off his bones to escape this unfortunate meeting. _Why is she doing this?_ He moaned to himself, the abhorrent gesture prodding him to simply _die_ right then and there, soul mate or not.

 

She released him, smiling brightly in that childish way of hers, and summoned a seat on the swing beside his. Harry warily placed _Pride and Prejudice_ on the ground beside him, before swerving the chains of the swing so he faced her front on. Rusted metal squeaked and groaned as he forcefully clashed the chains together. She met his eyes, and whined in a mock churlish way,

 

“Could've answered my question!”

 

Harry nodded, showing amusement externally but scowling inside. He didn't want to answer her question. Why should he? She had come and disrupted his private reading time, reading time _for Tom_. What if Tom didn't love him now? What if he would have had a vital realisation today but couldn't because his thoughts were thrown into disarray by _her_?

 

“True.”

 

She sighed very deeply to him, as if he were utterly exhausting, and said in a peculiar tone of voice. It was slightly curious and slightly cynical, and eased Harry only minutely,

 

“ _Strange_ , isn't it? How I've been going to your school with you for four years and yet I know nothing about you but rumours that aint seeming to be true.”

 

Harry wondered where she was going with this. She pouted again, her shoulders and only-just-developing chest drooping with the realisation of the whole world. She seemed upset, and Harry felt himself unconsciously edging back from her; crying was strictly _not allowed_. That applied to other people as well – except Tom, if Tom wanted to cry that would be fine, Tom was the exception to all rules, Tom could make up his own rules, _please Tom don't leave me_.

 

Harry blinked, shaking his head slightly to clear the panic ridden thoughts, and continued to observe. She mumbled, her head bowed in gratefulness, a knight gracious to their queen, the boisterous tirade from earlier having lost its vivacity. It seemed to be that the confidence had been a front, or maybe she was simply very emotionally charged and quick to bounce from one extreme to another. Harry diagnosed her as a moody prepubescent teen, and his wariness increased tenfold.

 

 _Moody girls were a terrifying concept, girls especially_. One may assume that a boy as mature as Harry would be immune to the 'cooties concept', and one would be mistaken to think that. Girls were gross and weird and Harry wanted nothing to do with them.

 

“All I've been tryna say is that 'm sorry for being a bit of a douche at school, and thanks for saving my brother from your cousin and his boys.”

 

The air was shocked silent with that gesture of peace – maybe _this girl_ wasn't so bad. Harry's heart stopped in his chest, and fear began to rail at the edges of his skin; goosebumps appeared out of the nothingness, out of the fringes of non-existance. She beseechingly looked to him, her eyes wide and wet with the innocence of a not-so-innocent sixth grader (what sixth grader was innocent, the boys at the table across from Harry's had whispered about _condoms_ the other day, they were so naughty). Her dark hair was stringy and matted around her face, as if she were a wild creature, and Harry treated her as such. This situation was startlingly new and unknown, so the silence prevailed for far too long to be polite before he perfunctorily replied.

 

“Yeah, its fine.”

 

Relief flooded in her chest, he could see it in the faint but glad widening of her eyes and smoothing of her creased frown, and the moment was lost in the folds of sandy time. Harry felt his own chest un-tighten slightly, and the chemicals of fear that had begun to shoot through his veins paused their marathon and dribbled to a stop. The thumping of his heart was loud in his ears, but it soon calmed, and they were left in companionable silence. Harry wondered if this was what friendship was, that release from the terror of meeting that ended in joint trauma, and therefore love. _What is love but what is gained from force?_ His hand slipped out from the shelter of his shirt, the comforting action lost on the pudgy girl in front of him – her childish easily distracted mind obliviously focussing on other things, she was lost in Harry's gentle “yeah its fine”, the epitome of friendship. Once alone, the soul mark lay calmly next to him, always there, always waiting. Just like Tom.

 

Suddenly a maniacal grin lit her face, and she charged forward, flying past him and into the embrace of the creaky swing to his left – it was a magnificent leap from swing to swing, true athleticism at its finest, she was an Olympian. She lifted high into the air, by the power of unrequited unsullied energy, and plummeted back down as quick as a rocket tumbling to earth. Once her feet hit tarmac, she twisted over so that she was eye level with Harry, and smiled impishly,

 

“I was kinda nervous 'bout talking to you, you never talk to anyone, see? So I thought maybe you just didn't like talking. Then I thought that's silly because _everyone_ likes talking, everyone with a mouth that is! Haha, then I had to figure out where you were, because my brother, he's been besotted with ya ever since you saved his life, was nagging and nagging at me to find you and bestow on you, like, a thousand kisses or something...”

 

She trailed off at the appearance of an alien expression on Harry's face. The air stilled around them, and her words drifted into silence. They both stared intently at one another, with a solemnity it was assumed neither possessed – Harry being a freak, and her being a rowdy hyper young child.

 

Harry bundled his meagre portion of courage together and inquired tentatively. _This might be it_ he thought, ecstatic and petrified, _This might be him_. All his life had been building up to this point, to this meeting, and the thought that it was finally here brought tears to his eyes – not actual tears, that would be absurd, he was in love not a baby! All his sacrifice, all the pain, it would be worth it just to see _Tom_.

 

“What's his name?”

 

Harry asked, hope blooming in his chest like a knife to the heart. It almost hurt to consider that he may have finally found his Tom, the one to love him like no other, his _soul_. But he _did_ dare dream, dared that his bravery had contributed to finally finding _that person._ He felt achy in the most beautiful of ways, as his heart began to pound, and lips trembled slightly in betrayal to his apathetic façade.

 

“Who? My brother?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Harry held his breath.

 

“Martin. Why?”

 

The breath left him like that hope, and a bitter icy feeling gripped his core tightly, his stomach sinking down into his knees, and arms coming up to curl around his chest. Harry suddenly felt ten pounds heavy, but still so empty inside. His face relaxed out into a faint expression and his eyes dulled. It seemed so strange to miss something he'd never had, but he was already missing Tom, it just felt like there was something gone that was meant to be there, and he wasn't quite right without it.

 

“Oh, no reason.”

 

The two children swung together until the sun threatened to leave the sky. She – Harry never asked her name – scampered away, mumbling something about parents and bedtimes, with a brilliant flush adorning her cheeks. The park settled into it's equilibrium; that being serene quiet. Harry basked in it, his heart somehow lighter even if Tom had not yet arrived. He had his whole life, after all, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to wait for a bit.

 

…

 

As he stepped into the house everything became slightly muted, and Harry felt his expression fade away into nothingness. His heart dulled under his skin and he could feel the calm and devoid breaths in his chest; his torso rose and fell, pulsed, slowly, up and down, as he heard his footsteps follow him. Harry became a non entity, he left his body and floated above his head, thoughts swimming about, unattached to his mind. _The hall needs sweeping_ buzzed in his mind, and he latched onto the thought, absently ambling over to the laundry to hold the broom and dustpan.

 

The plastic felt cold to his warm hands, but the feeling floated away from him, and he did not hiss at the icy pinch to his clean and crumbled palms. Harry danced vacantly, sweeping the hall, vaguely taking note of the small and contrite nod of approval from his Aunt as she waddled out from the Dining Room and upstairs, perhaps to read, perhaps to complain to her precious Dudders about the state of the house, perhaps something Harry could only imagine in the wildest flights of fancy. Music played in his mind as he swayed gently, from side to side, strands of dark hair falling into his face unencumbered. But Harry left them, absent in this moment, floating, off and away, thoughts drowned by the pleasant numbness.

 

He was a servant boy here; he was not given shelter to have thoughts; he was not given thoughts to work.

 

Somehow the afternoon drifted away from him, and all that was left in his mind was the smell of antiseptic and Tom. _Tom would help if he were here. Tom would hold me as I swept. Tom would sniff my hair and giggle and be a child. Tom.._

 

…

 

School was out for the Summer, but apparently they were having a baking fun fair in spite of the fact that the grounds were closed, to raise money for the poorer Surrey-Dwellers. Harry had been recruited – i.e. Aunt Petunia giving him the _eyes_ (her scolding look of doom and destruction) followed by Uncle Vernon cuffing him around the back of the head until he saw stars and admitted defeat – to prepare a feast for it. _Feast_ meaning cupcakes with holly-green alien icing – as requested by Sir Dudders, reigning royalty of the Dursley household. It had been a delicate process, that consisted of wading through the trash of the Dursley Kitchen (it was always dirty somehow), and being gifted three burns from lack of oven mitts, cupcakes were a dangerous pastime after all. They were in the wash, due to being used in a science experiment that consisted of... stink bombs? Dudley's excuses were evolving to be marginally more believable, a sign of personal growth, but nothing too exorbitant.

 

The family, with Harry tagging along, arrived two hours into the festivities. It was a clash of cheap tinsel (left over from the Christmas Extravaganza last December), stalls decorated with hand-made flags – done by the year three class – and old camping tables that creaked when the wind blew too strongly. Babbles of kiddies scurried about, lips painted in forbidden icing, their parents trailing behind them with neighbourly grins and lagging jackets. The posh Surrey-Dwellers turned their noses up at the familial displays, before indulging in fatty taste-exploding home made treats the familials had created; their own children stealthily snuck away from 'family time' to play with those splashing in mud puddles. There had been lovely summer rain yesterday, and the luminescent greenery showed it's gratitude.

 

“Boy, keep up. Now, Dudders Darling, buy anything you want, your birthday is _tomorrow_ sweetie, after all, and we want you to just enjoy yourself. Its not everyday our little Dudley becomes eleven! You're becoming quite the young gentleman.”

 

Harry felt his eyes dim slightly, into semi-servant mode. Semi-servant _mode_ made it feel a bit like a game, as if he was just being a character in a book or a television funny-person, it was all just fun and games then. When he was out in public he still needed to be servile, but in a way that it would not draw any attention. Other children, after all, were respectful of their guardians, so he simply had to pretend that the Dursleys were not owners and were, in fact, guardians. It wasn't as tricky as it sounded, and mostly involved following orders – which he was exceptional at when he chose to be. His little legs sped up, almost unconsciously, and he felt his eyes wander once more to the celebrations occurring around him.

 

At the edge of the courtyard, where the slabs of cement became frayed and worn from pervasive patterings of little feet, were the Neighbourhood Ladies. This included Mrs. Jenkins, wrapped up in a god-awful sweater-blouse combo which cooked her like lamb chops, her stall was slightly separated from the other women's due to the rumour circulating of her husband/cousin. Adjacent to her was Mrs. Parsprey (the children called her Parsley Breath, as Harry occasionally overheard from gossip whispers that glided around the playground) an eagle-browed brunet professional word-smith (good at the crossword), as mentioned by Aunt Petunia's sparse passive-aggressive semi-envious comments over stir fry. Mr. Parsprey was mingling with the other dads, a beer gut safely cradled under his Summer Vest, and grandiose buffoonish smile which was apparently ' _very becoming_ '. Mr. Jenkins stood next to him, uncomfortable and awkward, his large midnight jacket pulled tight around his shoulders as he hunched in defeat – it was common place for Mr. Jenkins to attempt to escape conversation with Mr Parsprey and never succeed, many other dads watched and laughed in good-natured fascination. In order from left-to-right, from the edge of Mrs. Parsprey's stall, was Ms. Smith, Mrs. Fray, Mrs. Boutelle and her sister Ms. Boutelle, and finally Mrs Steela (a mysterious silver haired lady who apparently suffered from an _unbecoming_ condition called Poliosis).

 

Harry, of course, knew all of this, as he was the gatekeeper to all rumours (at least the ones Aunt Petunia splurged whilst craning her neck over the shared fence, and those gathered when the High-Born Ladies came over for tea). At least, she _used_ to sip the finest of Earl Greys with them, before they kicked her out of the book club. He also knew, as sphinx for all knowledge regarding the High-Born Ladies, that Mrs. Figg, a crazy cat lady which he was sometimes loaded off onto when the Dursleys had vacations, was not allowed in the elitist line of stalls even if she _should_ have been. Mrs. Figg was somewhat of an anomaly, she was a lady that could afford to live in one of the most luxurious streets in Surrey, and yet she was as mad as a blind-eyed bat. By technicality she was High-Born, but by technicality Harry was a child; and so far neither had not made an iota of difference.

 

Aunt Petunia was no longer greeted with welcoming open arms to the cabal of Neighbourhood Ladies, so she was banished to set up 'her' – Harry's _thankyouverymuch –_ cupcakes with the _rest_ of the bakers. These 'bakers' – if one dared call them such – lived life like scoundrels; barely attending Christmas Extravaganzas, working full time, with over two and a half children, or committing a heinous crime as _being a foreigner. These bakers_ rarely brought their own baked confectionery, rather they sneakily bought it at the local grocery – some held no concern for their façade whatsoever and unravelled the pre-packaged baked goods in full sight of any nosy neighbour. When glancing at _these bakers_ one could see a correlation between culture and the label; it was common knowledge that Surrey-ers were not 'foreigner friendly', as shown by the _very_ English way of life they followed (and refusal to change in the slightest). It was 1991 and Surrey Life was structured around the three main pillars of; clean freshly mowed laws, Christianity, and cake baking stalls. The Dursley Household was an avidly subscribed to this way of life, even if they only attended church on Christmas and Easter. However, due to their pristine garden and ever scrumptious baked delights, their lack of faith was excused cordially by the community, with nary a passive-agressive sigh nor subtle slight in sight.

 

Harry helped set up, dragging the swathe of criss-crossed crimson table cloth over the stall, and unfolding the camping chairs so that the majority (three fourths – one can guess which members) of the family would not have to stand the whole day. The Dursleys were _proper people_ , and did not hunch about on two legs like everyone else – they hunched about on four.

 

“Harry!”

 

Harry winced silently to himself, adjusting Dudley's chair, which was the colour aqua and covered in Batman stickers (he'd grown a fascination over superheroes that holiday, Harry hadn't because he had been too busy doing chores and sulking). The oh so familiar voice carried over the hubbub, and he could feel the boring of his aunt and uncle's eyes into his flesh – the silent sticky demand “ _who's that, Boy?_ ” Harry was unable to explain, defenceless in the face of this sudden twist in the complicated drama that unfortunately was his life. How could he, disgusting delinquent Harry Potter, explain that he had recently made a friend? It was the fodder for fairytales, and his relatives had banned such things as fairytales long ago.

 

“Harry? It's me! Can you hear me?”

 

Harry deafened himself through sheer stubbornness, and continued the set up of his stall. Maybe if he said nothing, she would just stop, and his life would be spared. Judging by the hot caress of judgement on flesh he sincerely doubted such clemency.

 

 _This is why I hate socialising_ Harry groused, flattening out the cloth with shaking starchy fingers, continuing to pretend that nothing was occurring.

 

Out of his peripheral he spied a few of the Neighbourhood Ladies' eyes falling onto the situation with curiosity and the beginnings of glee, as did his aunt, who was still desperate to be initiated back into the highly-coveted group. She shoved him lightly on the shoulder, in a faux maternal gesture, and whispered harshly in his ear with a plastic smile wrapped suffocatingly over her lips,

 

“ _Boy_ , go over to your little friend now, we wouldn't want anyone getting suspicious.”

 

Harry jerked back, as quick as a whip, his movement nigh recognisable due to the sheer speed of his escape. The raven haired boy ducked down, attempting to escape his aunt's iron grip. Her fingers didn't unclench, rather she pulled him closer, so her hot breath puffed against his ear,

 

“We _will_ be talking about this when we get home, don't you think otherwise.”

 

His aunt, normally the more serene and perfectly adjustable one (like the limbs of a barbie doll), transformed into a ravenous deranged blood-thirsty troll when provoked, even Harry's uncle had gleaned a few safe paces of space between them. Harry remembered how casually he had nicked her sewing scissors not too long ago, and felt like scolding his younger self – _what if she had found out?_ His lithe body wriggled desperately in her grip, and, upon realising how tackling her nephew was a sure fire way to create a more noticeable scene, she released her manacle hold on him. Harry went flying ( _freeeeeee as a biiiiiiird_ ), arms flailing for a second, before he steadied, fell back down to Earth, and raced over to where the voice had come from – the origin of this mess.

 

His legs burned by the time he arrived, and he was out of breath. His heart thundered in his ears like drums, a howling storm brewing deep in the cavern of his chest, and yet there was a breathless smile painted on his lips – _I really have gone mad_. Reality hit hard, and Harry felt his expression slide off, like slippery ephemeral water, and his body tense, before forcefully relaxing until it resembled “having fun at fair” - as one may expect at a funfair. He lifted his eyes, and there _she_ was.

 

“Hey Harry! It's rockin' to see ya here, I didn't know if we'd meet or not, but I'm glad we did, haha.”

 

She was leaning on one leg, hand loose on one hip, the other hanging low and unhooked, grin reaching from ear to ear, and hair frazzled as if it was an untamed beast. It fell lanky and straight today, but Harry instinctively spied knots hidden in the folds ( _the urge to clean is strong in this one, jedi_ ). Her words trailed off a bit, as if they'd just ambled about before stopping for a chip break, and Harry interjected with an awkward half-wave shudder of his hand – he felt a little resentful that she had gotten him in trouble, even if she hadn't meant to, and it showed in his enthusiasm. _He_ would face lashes after a dinner _he_ would miss tonight, and _she_ would just keep smiling like an imp, ignorant and oh so happy.

 

“...okay, well, let's go play tag. Martin's friend, Dean, has been yammerin' on _all_ mornin'!”

 

At his unequivocal silence, she presented her own master plan, before hooking her arm into his limp one and manhandling him over to the crowd of kids who were playing by the flag pole. The flag sagged – a wicked white dotted with lemon-yellow swirls that represented “school unity” – due to the absent wind and dreary sun. The flag was useless today, but the silver shining pole it connected to was the perfect signifier for '44 Homes'. The game, originally called '44 Home', had evolved with the wiles of children's slang into '44 Homes'. The kids, that scurried about excited for the game, ranged from six to almost twelve. Harry vaguely recognised most as those he'd seen around the neighbourhood in large biking gangs or huddled together on the playground whispering or playing handball – they didn't notice him, and their eyes slid over him for a second before they settled on his... friend?

 

“Lily, hey, next round is in, like, two secs, you and whats-his-name playing?”

 

Someone giggled in the background because it sounded like he said “sex”.

 

Lily (Harry's... arm-hooking partner was apparently named Lily) nodded enthusiastically, sticking out her lips in a wide silly grin, her teeth on display for any soul interested enough to gander. Harry's eyes flickered to them and he noted that teeth were tinged yellow – maybe she didn't care much for dental health. The brunet boy nodded in return, clearly taking this game more seriously than the surrounding players, and acting in a pseudo-leader capacity as he organised and asked who was playing the next round – his lanky armed friend who was leant against the pole rolled his eyes in a joking manner in response to his friend's 'maturity'. Harry shied away slightly from the conversation, not used to interacting with people his own age or common decency. The lanky kid narrowed his eyes at him,

 

“Jer, is that the weird kid who Dudley is always slaggin' off?”

 

Jer's friend spoke with a lisp and rough Surrey accent, Harry recognised it from the downtown area, where the gardens were more rugged and never-mowed, and the windows were just split panes and frosted mould. He roved Harry like he was reading a magazine, sectioning him off into parts with his dissector pupils – arms, legs, face, shoes, absent smile, wary eyes. Jer elbowed him in the gut with a slanted grin then called out with cupped hands,

 

“Stan's _in_ , everybody _hide_!”

 

Stan, who coincidentally was the lanky friend, rolled his eyes again before turning towards the poll and shading his eyes with both hands. Dirt kicked up a storm as Jer raced away from the metal pole, his face a slate of solemn intent – he was the kind of kid who took the game _way_ to seriously or in his words “to the next level”. Harry spied him climbing into the embrace of a tree in corner vision, before he registered a familiar tugging on his elbow – Lily.

 

The two fled as one, edging behind a gnarled ancient oak. They hardly dared to breathe, flattened against the trunk with their bodies pressed so tightly together that it would be adequately sealed for a space airlock. Numbers descended from Stan's thin lips, falling from 44 (where the game gained its namesake) finally to 1. He opened his eyes and found a world devoid of children – the gentle murmurs of the cake stalls were background music to this feat of the extraordinary (the silence of many primary-schoolers hyped up on cakes).

 

Stan stepped away from the plate, hands outstretched, rotating around and around on the axis of his left ankle. The words left his lips,

 

“44 Homes, _here I come_!”

 

Sudden chaos ensued. Child turned against child. The wind picked up and the flag came to life. The hustle and bustle of the cake stalls crescendoed to the discernible shouts of throaty adult voices – but all noises were blurred in this war zone. There was only the breath in one's lungs and the loyalty they held to their friends, who would betray whom? Who would drop the ball? Who would be found first? All these questions dove and twirled inside the buzzing skulls of impatient pre-teens. None knew who would be next, none knew how far they would go to make it to next round unscathed, none knew the depths of their own depravity.

 

Lily released his elbow, and in that moment Harry knew that this was more than a game – this decided _everything_. The facts abandoned him and all that remained was this feeling of _prey_ and surrendering panic. There was a hunt and he was the prize. His breathing quickened and his veins felt _solid_ and _stone_ hidden in his arms. Harry raised spindly limbs and forged his attempt at the pole. Bodies flew left and right. People collapsed like headless chickens, still swimming even when all hope was lost.

 

Stan was a keen eye. He had strategy. He held still by the pole – obeyed the rule of not _touching_ it but did not stray far. He tossed out a few young ones, the naïve kids who hid behind bushes only a few paces from the pole, the older siblings who were in the process of teaching their brothers and sisters how to play for the first time. None were spared. This was no merciful bloodbath. This was a day to remember, the battle of '91, the trembling victory that was so close yet so far. There were no real winners, there were only people – people who reached the pole and people who got caught. They were all the same in this Surrey funfair park – High Born or foreign their knees all scraped the same.

 

It was a blur, but, somehow, Harry made it. Panting harshly, thighs burning, a stinging scrape on his shin from when he fell and scrambled back up to safety, but he _made it_. The calloused hand of ice cold metal grasped his own open palm firmly in congratulations and peace – he shook hands with home base. He was a victor. _Tom would be so proud, Tom would have made it too_.

 

Lily stood beside him, not out of breath, not sweaty or flushed. She had been one of the first to touch down – she held no adrenalin. For her there had been no chase. She was a veteran of '44 Homes'.

 

Harry shared a small smile, it barely touched his lips. Lily beamed back with the power of a thousand fiery suns, blinding him with her joy,

 

“Good game, Harry! C'mon, let's see if Jer is having another 'round.”

 

Harry trailed Lily around the pole, taking tentative shelter in her shielding confidence (to be honest he still liked reading alone better but if Lily was there he didn't have to talk, she talked enough for the both of them) and reunited with Jer for a second round. Stan loomed ominously in the background, staring up at the rustling leaves above with a sense of finality. Jer and Lily conversed some more, apparently they were stopping '44 Homes' because Dean (one of the younger kids) had scraped his knee and his mother had stormed over and told them all off. Jer moaned about the injustice of it all, but was not one to argue with an _adult_. None of them were.

 

Jer and Lily faded away from Harry, like shadows in the night, there was no differentiating. He was just a silent passenger in their conversation. They ended up walking off together, giggling and kidding with luminous laughter. He gazed at them as they left, before he tilted his head down to stare at his scuffed shoes.

 

“Hey, whats-your-name.”

 

It was Stan, watching him with an unreadable expression and a twisted lip as if he had sucked on a lemon. Maybe he had, Harry wasn't omnipotent. Harry faced him head on and corrected,

 

“Harry.”

 

Stan blinked,

 

“Harry?”

 

“Harry Potter... my, uh, name.”

 

The older boy let out a wry chuckle, stepping forward (into his personal space _excuse me please don't_ ) until he stood only a pace away, leant against the pole. Stan titled his head in wonder, his eyes rested on Harry's arm,

 

“Where'd ya get that?”

 

Harry followed the laser pointer of Stan's eyes and realised he was staring intently at a faint scuff mark on Harry's arm. It was barely visible. He squinted as he tried to recall where it had come from – Harry Hunting maybe, or it could have been '44 Homes'.

 

“I dunno.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Stan hummed at him, from deep in his throat, like a bee. An act of disbelief and suspicion. He casually remarked, as if it was an afterthought,

 

“I'm Stan.”

 

Harry nodded in understanding,

 

“Cool.”

 

There wasn't much to say. The air staled between them, awkward and stifled. Harry stood there, twiddling his thumbs, unsure of how to communicate or proceed. Normally he could play it cool, he could stand brooding and silent, still and calm – but he remained flushed from the recent exercise, sticky and hot, and his eyes couldn't meet Stan's, no matter how hard he tried. It was as if there was a forcefield stopping him from looking into the unfathomable pits of a twelve year old – maybe it was a law. If there was ever a moment where the full gravity of everything hit, it would be between the breath and swirl of this infinitesimal speck of time, when his and Stan's eyes didn't quite meet and the sun didn't shine quite right, mottled by leaves and July. On the off beat of the world they existed. Everything hit on the off beat. His fingers travelled, triumphed and explored under his sweat-ridden shirt, swirling over Tom's letters, and suddenly it all wasn't impossibly stilted. Peaceful, not stilted. Because maybe Tom was there with him and he wasn't just standing there drowning in Stan's judgement.

  
  


“You seem kinda weird Harry, but I like ya.”

  
  


Harry shrugged non-committally, his hair falling in curtains over his eyes like protection. Stan faded away, and then it was just him again.

  
  


_Like always_.

 

Enormous chunky pieces of him hoped that Lily would leave him alone, but the biggest lumpiest most painfully-twisted-honest-stuck-in-throat slice wished she would stop by some time, that it might not be _always_ , knock on the front door and grin in that ugly magnetic way of hers, maybe give the Dursleys a heart attack - because the norm wasn't necessarily what he wanted.

 


	3. Chapter 3

"No, sir."

 

“You think your little _friends_ actually _like you_ , do you boy?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“You think you’re _allowed_ to interact with other children?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“You think I will _take this_ kind of _disrespect_ , huh _boy_?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“Get against the wall.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Shut _up_.”

 

 _A beat_.

 

“Forty lashes. Twenty for disrespect. Twenty for interaction. It’s a _privilege_ to live here like you do, with such luxury. Don’t take us for granted.”

 

...

 

When Lily asked why he hadn’t been at school, Harry said he’d caught the flu. 

 

He knew his friendship with Lily could never last.

 

The issue was that she had fallen in love with a mimicry, a shell of a boy. Harry had never, not once, shown her who he truly was; every third thing she knew of him was a lie. His favourite movie. His favourite game. His life with the Dursleys. The truth of his mother and father. At first it had been only to keep himself safe, then it had become habit, and finally it was as if he were trapped. He couldn't reveal the truth now, or she would know he had been lying this whole time. And he couldn't trust her with such deception; she was only a child.

 

But Harry couldn't be himself around her, even when he was starting to like her. He was scared and he didn't want to lose her friendship. It was as if she was a fungus, at first he had been anxious around her, but she had grown onto him and now they were connected. Attached. Bonded. Almost like a soul mate but with a friend instead, if that comparison was applicable.

 

But, she was still fungus; and therefore not trustworthy in the least.

 

...

 

The world was alive; everything in some way. It’s just that most humans never bothered to stop and notice. They lived as if they were blind, deaf and dumb – treading carelessly through the world with nary a thought. Don't think the walls or ground or sky was any better though – each tended to ignore the animate and focus on the inanimate, so Luna was privy to many a household drama literally revolving the _house_. However, sometimes they would grasp a piece of animate gossip from a chair or rug nearby and pass on the message – 'chair says the tall one is walking in the kitchen' – they would whisper it right into her petal ear, as if they were sharing a grand secret. Luna would giggle behind her hand and flutter her eyelashes at the wall, she loved friends and she loved secrets, so secret friends were a dream come true.

 

Luna heard the ground whisper that 'the pretty one is sad' and so she took his hand in hers and waited for the sadness to leave. She’d appeared at the Manor again... somehow. It was so easy to time travel when you knew every thought and feeling of the entire world. So easy to get lost.

 

 Draco blinked, turning to her in shock, and said aghast and confused – in a tone Luna knew was borrowed from the adults,

 

“Wha-What are you doing?”

 

She hushed him, but he continued to ask questions. Luna placed a finger on his lips and confided,

 

“Shush, we need to listen now, no talking.”

 

Draco closed his mouth and waited with her. Eventually, the ground said, the sadness left.

 

Soul mates. She liked them. Draco did too, she knew that. She knew that he had her letters. He had the _Luna_ inscribed into him. She knew, when she was awake enough to know, that they kept their letters secret. Behind the prescribed wrist bands. Behind Draco’s coquettish fluttering of his eyelids, his secretive smile, his mother’s strength. Behind Luna Lovegood’s lunacy.

 

Behind it all they still held hands.

 

Back again. Back in the present. Draco is older now, his face is more sharp angles, his lips pursed just like Old Papa Lucius. He’d used to call his father that; then he referred to him as dad, then father, then Lucius and then not at all. Lucius was in jail now, is he? Will he be? When you knew everything it was difficult to know at what point you were in.

 

Draco isn’t there yet, wasn’t there yet. He had no Hogwarts robes. He wasn’t afraid to hold her hand. His eyes still sparkled. His left arm was bare and naked and pure. The twirling grass told her Draco loved her – but she’d already knew that. Luna looked into the kaleidoscope and saw only straight lines, she looked at the organisation and saw only kaleidoscopes. Sneakoscopes. Mr. Moody and his red light racing towards her like an omen – a Grimm, perhaps.

 

Oh, if only they _listened_. They would see it too. Will see it. One day.

 

Draco, older yet, older still, softer somehow. He’s arguing about the muggle technology. He’d stolen his cousin’s tape recorder at the  big Black family bash. Nymphadora’s fancy trip into muggle London. Draco’s sticky fingers.

 

Luna knew the truth – it wasn't _no magic_ that was hurting the muggle technology, it was _more magic_. She tutted to herself, silly humans, and her shoes agreed with a sing-song 'silly silly silly silly'. Her shoes loved to dance, and she saw no reason not to oblige them.

...

 

“Shit.”

 

Harry tasted the swear word on his tongue; it felt electric, sibilant, he felt alive and forbidden.

 

Stan cussed frequently – it was part of his personality. Some people were just like that. He said “fuck” and “shit” and “faggot” and “homo” and “bugger” and “bollocks”. Every new word Harry heard he took down in his own personal inventory in his mind, shelves and shelves of these words, these electric powerful words that made his eyes light up and his tongue fizz with wildness. “Cunt” was the word of the day, no longer did he search the library for vocabulary like “ephemeral” or “partition”. Harry voyaged out into the dangerous world of “slagging” other people off, insults as security. He catalogued and observed long diatribes that could be thinned into a few short quips – brevity was the key to wit, as was off-kilter originality. People could release a stuttering harangue any day of the week, but it took a _pro_ to skin someone's liver and dice their heart in seconds, to cut someone down so thoroughly that they flinched at the sound of their own name. To _leave_ Harry alone – so that he could simmer and indulge in peace, read as he may without fists raining down upon him.

 

Stan mentored him in the basics. He gave a window of opportunity, of friendship, but Harry quickly outshone him, and gained and refined his own personal Harry-land vernacular that could rival that of an inebriated sailor when necessary. Not that he spoke in such a manner all the time, he didn't trounce about shouting “bitch” at teachers or “cock-sucking cunt” to the lately vacant but still explosive tempers of his relatives. Harry held a smidge more common sense than that, and knew to conceal his wicked tongue for when it was necessary – a last resort one may say. But, he would always cherish Stan as his professor in the art of tongue and cheek, and he would always possess a special carved out hollow in his heart when time demanded it.

 

Today was Dudley’s birthday. Everything was always a million times worse on a public holiday. On Christmas he could look forward to being electrocuted by ethereal strings of lights. Around Easter it was always a joy to gain skin-itching rashes as he foraged in their resident poison ivy plant for the Easter eggs Dudley always _miraculously_ managed to store there. Halloween, the anniversary of his parents death, was practically a festival in the Dursley abode, with Aunt Petunia getting so pissed on her ‘cooking’ sherry that Harry could squirrel away enough disintegrated self esteem to last him the rest of the year. He just _loved_ hearing about his whore of a mother’s exploits, and with his newly gained curse words he could all the better interpret what Aunt Petunia was suggesting.

 

All of these were well and good, but Dudley’s birthday was by far the most important date of the year. Forget Christmas. Forget Mother’s day. Forget minutes of silence for those who had gone to war (not that they ever practiced _that_ in the Dursley Household). No, it was the 23rd of June 1980 which Harry would forever have ingrained into his brain. The Dursley public holiday that resulted in his brat of a cousin becoming infinitely more bratty and self serving. It was the day in which one did not count down the advent or burrow cookies under the tree, but rather counted Dudley’s snowballing mass of gifts to the _letter_. It was when Aunt Marge ‘mysteriously’ left for a week, as even _she_ had enough sense to know that her obnoxious presence would not be tolerated on ‘Duddie’s special day.’

 

“Shit,” He repeated.

 

...

 

This year Dudley picked the zoo, which was rather tame all things considered. Harry – with a large enough store of food to last him two days, stolen over many months with a keen eye – was wishing away the hours, holding some sympathy that his day as Dudley’s slave (another _fine_ tradition) would be over before he knew it and he would be able to relax in Miss Figg’s rather strange cat-lady house. The walls smelt like cat pee and all the mugs had obscure sayings on them like “Quidditch Captain of 1965” or “Squib’s Rights Movement”, but she didn’t hit him with the dustpan and Harry didn’t have to pretend not to exist for long periods of time. So, it was _brilliant_.

 

Sadly, things didn’t go according to plan.

 

His aunt steamrolled into the room, that expression on her face which Harry _knew_ meant catastrophe, “Bad news, boy, Miss Figg has broken her leg. You’re coming too.” Even though his precious aunt projected disgust, Harry knew a part of her revelled in the pain he got from being Dudley’s slave.

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

 _Do it for Tom_ Harry thought, fleeing the room as quickly as he could to trace his soul mate. _Not long now_ he thought, thinking of the things he had packed under his mattress. Soon he would be out of here and Tom would be with him. He would be happy.

 

...

 

When Harry was younger he hadn't known there was anything wrong with his life. It had just been how it was, his place in the world, his designation in life. Then, he had attended school, and been introduced to the wonderful world of reading, to the library, and those books that taught him that life was not meant to be like it was for him, that he was not meant to be treated so. He found hope in those mountains of words, and now, instead of preparing himself for a life of servanthood, was getting ready to leave for good, and make his way in the world like those characters who had dreams and hope.

 

Harry lived in a world of no laws; within his household he was flayed whether he committed crimes or not, so there was no reason to stop himself. Certain things he knew he should never do if he wanted to live, but other, more mundane things, held no credence in his morality. Stealing was worth just as many lashes as existence, so truly, it mattered not if he stole, just as it mattered not if he existed, and if his theft was discovered well _no matter_. It was almost expected of him, to break the status quo, to be punished, to be a delinquent, and Harry found it easier to live up to expectation. It was freeing, to be unburdened of guilt for petty crime, and know that everything he achieved was that much _better_ for he was _fighting_ what was expected.

 

This was why when the snake spoke back to him, he didn’t just grin, he purposefully vanished the glass. A vindictive part of him hoped his cousin would get bitten.

 

He squashed it down. _Be good for Tom._ His soul mate would want him to be kind, right? Nurturing? He’d do _anything_ for Tom, he was his last hope, his dwindling fire.

 

_Be good._

 

...

 

The bag was fully packed under his bed when the letter arrived. His socks were double bagged, stomach aching from all the Dursley food he had scoffed, and eyes sparkling at the smell of Dudley’s newest birthday present burning in his palms. Revenge tasted sweet, but he didn’t harm them. He wanted to be good. He did. Anything but be like them.

 

The letter felt like a message from above. A sign to continue. A slip of hope telling him what he was doing was the right thing.

 

He pocketed it and ran, Tom’s name on his lips, grin contagious in the wind. He didn’t say goodbye to Lily. He didn’t speak to anyone. His only friend was the concealment of night and the stolen caramel candies that lined his pockets. Sucking on the sweets on the train, London in his mind’s eye, a conjured butterfly in his palm, he _knew_.

 

Magic; that was the name.

 

Magic; that was _his_ name.

 

Magic; salvation.


End file.
